


We Fight Ourselves

by royallieu



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Based off Season 7, F/M, Post-Series, as well as Season 8 'Leaks'
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2018-12-26 07:41:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12054396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/royallieu/pseuds/royallieu
Summary: Jon never truly belonged to her, but she knew that already. Fate had cast its die a long time ago—everyone, including herself, had to live with the outcome. At least she had her babe; at least she had her home. Sansa re-evaluates the state of her marriage after brushing too close with death, but she’s not the only one whose views have changed.





	1. Chapter 1

Sansa went over the letter she had written. It was succinct, penned in that commanding tone she mastered a long time ago, save for the last few remarks that wished the recipient happiness and prosperity— _that_ had been with the personal flair of one Sansa Stark, rather than the Lady of Winterfell. She could tell that Maester Payton didn’t approve by his frown, but she expected nothing less from a student of the Citadel; on the other hand, she suspected that Samwell Tarly would have approved wholeheartedly, had _he_ been her maester. When it came to expressing her own disapproval, she had gone easy, superfluous as it was; considering the inheritance that Alys Karstark possessed, Sansa was sure that the noblewoman would have made a better match with someone other than the man she claimed to have fallen in love with, but if there was anyone who knew the strange workings of the heart, it was Sansa.

When she finally tore her gaze off the letter, it was Jon’s eyes she locked on. Her husband sat on the other side of the desk, watching her placidly; Sansa briefly wondered if the contents of his mind were just as collected. “Do you have any last objections to this?” she asked, reaching over the table with the document between her thumb and forefinger. He studied the offering for a moment before taking it from her.

Ghost’s heavy breathing was the only thing audible while he read the letter. “You’re more apt at these kinds of matters than I am,” he pointed out. “If you think this is best, I won’t oppose it.”

A smirk tugged at one corner of her mouth, but she held it back. If only Jon had heeded her opinions then like he did now, instead of questioning, dismantling everything she suggested. Perhaps it was true after all, she pondered, watching as he dipped his quill into the ink bottle before signing the letter; a crown changes everyone, even a man as steadfast and humble as Jon.

He handed the parchment back to her to sign. With mild surprise, jealousy erupted inside of her, clouding her judgement for the space of a heartbeat until she forced it aside. There was no room for such pettiness here.   

“So that settles it,” she declared, rolling the parchment up before handing it to Maester Payton, “looks like it will be a love match after all.”

Her advisor nodded. “Surely this happy union will brighten the North,” he commented in that deep, smooth voice of his, while he prepared the wax seal. The letter would likely go out tonight, when the maester tended to the ravens in the rookery, but for poor Alys Karstark, it couldn’t come soon enough; she had waited nearly a month for their decision. Had the wait been as harrowing as the request itself?

Sansa remembered when Lady Alys had stood before the court, together with Ser Gilbart Cerwyn, while they declared their love for one another and their desire to wed. And while she had listened calmly to their entreaties, she was fuming on the inside. Even plain, unassuming Alys Karstark had found a man who loved her as much as she loved him. _A bond that she would never truly understand_. Sansa didn’t begrudge the couple for it, but it had put her in a sour mood for most of the day, not to mention those following. Up to until she had fallen ill, the matter had been on her mind constantly, her decision swinging wildly from one end to another. Lady Alys was quite fortunate she had come out of that awful fever with a stronger desire to repent for past wrongs. If the heiress wanted to marry Ser Gilbart, so be it; Sansa could live with that, knowing that it go a long way to mend their fraught relations. She never expected Lady Alys to forget the severity with which she had treated her with when it came time to address her father’s treachery, but this surely do it.

“It will be bright for the North only if their marriage proves fruitful in the bedchamber,” Sansa pointed out, reaching for the cup of ale placed near her elbow. She took of a sip of the bitter drink, hoping it might wash down the tickle in her throat. “If we’re to make better strides, we’ll need more bodies.”

She could feel the weight of Jon’s gaze on her, but she ignored it; if he thought her comment bawdy, he said nothing. Whatever his opinions about this northern marriage were, he was keeping those to himself as well. It was true that Jon wasn’t as detached as he had been when he first came back from the war-torn ravages of the far north, but he was still a far cry from the man who had once been crowned king by his people; his drive had been exhausted, torn asunder from the fighting and losses he and his soldiers had suffered. _Maybe someday_ , Sansa thought, tracing the patterns of her gown with one finger, _maybe someday he’ll be the Jon I’ll always remember, when the ghosts have sought refuge elsewhere._ It was wistful thinking that she knew she shouldn’t be indulging in, but sometimes she just couldn’t help herself. Did he think ever think about the future like she did? Did he ever think about the expansion of their family as eagerly as she wanted him to?

Unsurprisingly, their son came to mind. Her heart twisted painfully at the mere thought of Bran—his sweet face and red curls, the way his cries, whether they were made to express delight or sorrow, echoed against the stone walls of his nursery. Maester Payton wanted to be sure that the fever was well and truly gone before mother and son could reunite, but the wait was excruciating. Time and again, Sansa experienced a phantom ache in her arms, so desperate was she to hold him again like she always did, rather than watching him from the other side of her window, tears of yearning making her vision swim. Bran was her little pride and joy; he would always be, from now until the day he buried her corpse in the Crypts.

Jon didn’t share in the same powerful sentiments. He just didn’t feel that way about him, or anyone, for that matter. Sansa used to blame it all on _her_ , until it became too much. There came a point when the dead could no longer offer any consolation for those still living.

She let out a shaky breath. “We’ll have to start thinking about wedding gifts soon,” she said, when there was nothing better to talk about. “No doubt Ser Gilbart will be honored if you were to present him with a sword that you commissioned yourself. Perhaps you should see Elyot about that? He’s always over the moon whenever you come by to see him.”  

“All that can wait,” Jon replied. “Nobody’s planning a wedding feast while the Lady of Winterfell is still convalescing.”

Sansa opened her mouth to protest—instead, she burst into a loud fit of coughing so treacherous she couldn’t even bury them in her sleeve. A chair screeched against the stoned floors, but she didn’t need to look up; she knew it was Jon.

“It’s nothing,” she gasped, shaking her head vigorously, “I’m f—” Another round of hackling knocked the air out of her lungs. A goblet appeared in front of her; Sansa accepted it gratefully, bringing it to her lips as soon as she felt she could swallow. The drink was smooth as silk, sliding down her throat and offering sweet respite. She took a few more sips for good measure, her breathing returning to its normal rhythm without any threat of being compromised by another round of coughs.

Jon was kneeling before her, his face tight with fear and worry. He took the goblet from her hand while she took several deep breaths; if she had suffered another round of coughing, Sansa was fairly convinced that he wouldn’t hesitate to bring the goblet to her lips himself. And here she thought the fever had taken its toll on _her_.

“It’s all right, I’m well now,” she insisted, closing her eyes for a moment before opening them again. _I need to be, for Bran._

When she glanced at Jon, he was still on his knees, watching her with an intensity that had never been directed at her before. Sansa shuffled in her seat. “What is it?”

She didn’t understand what he was doing until it was too late; without warning, Jon pressed his thumb against the corner of her mouth, dragging it slowly along her skin to wipe away drops of ale that clung to the side of her mouth. A lover’s caress. The very thought made her panic; almost childishly, she swatted his hand away. “I said I’m _fine_ ,” she snapped, glaring at him. 

He didn’t say anything in response, but there was a stubborn glint in his gray eyes that left her even more perplexed. Worse, her skin still tingled where he touched her. Sansa turned back to the documents strewn across the table, trying to block out the sensation.     

“Maester Payton,” she called, eyes fixed on the ledgers she had reached for, eager to lose herself in the figures and notes, “you’ll see Lady Alys’s letter off as soon as you can, will you not?”

“I’ll see to it right now, my lady, if you like.”

“Please do.”

The maester’s departure was swift, but that wasn’t at all surprising; the air in their solar had shifted perceptibly, thick with tension borne between husband and wife. Jon was back on his feet now, dawdling in the periphery of her vision. She wouldn’t deny it: his concern for her was sweet, even if it was terribly off-putting as well. The ravages of war and death didn’t make him any less kind-hearted, but his more recent behavior was another thing altogether. A different version of herself, one more optimistic about love, would have blossomed at all the attention her husband was lavishing on her as of late. The woman she was, this skin she now wore with comfort and ease, was wary. Jon’s demeanor was throwing everything off-kilter, tilting the world she’d crafted for herself on its axis, and she didn’t appreciate the change.

“I think it’s in your best interests to see Elyot,” she advised. There was no mistaking the command in her tone. If Jon wasn’t going to leave her of his own accord, Sansa would make him. The blacksmith’s apprentice worshipped the ground that Jon walked on; let the boy indulge him with his attentions, because she would not. “Tell him about the wedding gift for Ser Gilbart—he’ll manage to come up with something grand, I’m sure of it.”

“But we’re not finished here.”

She lifted her head to look at him. Jon’s eyes were dancing between her and the letters on their desk.

“Those can wait till tomorrow,” she insisted. “I’ve some personal correspondence I’d rather catch up on now, if you don’t mind. I’ll see you at supper.”

Silence hovered between them while she waited for his response. Jon’s face was solemn and unreadable; it was like looking onto the surface of a calm lake and wondering if anything simmered beneath. Sansa wanted to probe through his head and discover what he thought about, but that was before she realized it would leave her heart just a little more damaged than it already was. She never considered herself a curious person, but even then, it had taken some time for her to accept that, sometimes, things were simply best left buried.  

“Supper it is,” Jon acceded. “But you’ll keep Ghost with you at all times.”

At the mention of his direwolf, Sansa couldn’t help but smile. “Ghost must be fed up with me by now,” she said, looking at the animal in question. He was lying before the hearth, his face perched on his forepaws, watching her with his great, red eyes. Maester Payton told her that Ghost never left her bedchamber once while she’d fought through the fever that nearly took her.

“Loyal to the very end,” she murmured.

“Pardon, my lady?”

Sansa shook her head. “It’s nothing.” She lowered her gaze to the ledger in her hands. “I’ll see you at supper.”

Jon lingered about for another moment, his eyes still fixed on her. When he was gone at last, she placed the ledger back onto the table and leaned against her seat, sighing loudly. At times like this, Sansa wondered if his near-suffocating presence was the reason she was still caught in the last branches of her illness. His concern wasn’t surprising, but his newfound attachment was. Sansa found it more jarring than she would have ever imagined; wasn’t this what she had wanted from him all along?

It was, she realized, except she didn’t know how long it was going to last for. His attention was normal, all things considered, but Sansa had a feeling it was all temporal, fleeting. She had had a close brush with death, and Jon had experienced a lifetime’s worth of loss already. Maybe it really didn’t even matter that it was she who lay dying; a calamity like that would only be another blow that he wasn’t ready to take.

Sansa was true to her word; she tried to pen a few more responses that had been neglected for too long, but the motivation dissipated as rapidly as it had appeared. Feeling restless, Sansa rose from her seat after finishing the last of her ale. Her joints sang with relief after such a long time sitting; she walked over to the only window in their solar that looked out to the fields beyond the tall, granite walls. The kingsroad disappeared into the horizon, past the forests and rolling hills laid across her view, cutting through the greenery like a divine hand had slashed through the landscape. She used to imagine a scene like this when she looked out of a window in the Red Keep, when all she saw were tight stretches of urban life, houses and buildings crowded against each other, visible even from the top of Aegon’s Hill. Sansa had dreamt of the freedom and sparseness of home like someone who dreamt of water while they wandered through the desert. Some of those dreams, if not all, were reality now—laid out before her, like a feast was laid out for the most gluttonous. Was it wrong of her sometimes, when she thought it wasn’t enough?

She looked away, eyes resting on the documents strewn across her desk—no, not just hers, but Jon’s as well. It was built with the idea of accommodating two people, the length nearly equal to its width. Their solar was her home within a home, but a sudden desire to escape it, escape the great keep and its inhabitants, was overwhelming. Bran was the only person she had any desire to see right now, but she couldn’t. Sansa wanted her eyes to feast on something beautiful…

There _was_ a place, though. She hadn’t been there since falling sick with that awful fever, but it was exactly the kind of alternative she needed. A quick interlude before returning to her letters, and that was all.

_What if he finds out you’re not here?_

Sansa blinked. That voice—it was never there before. Or, if it was, she never paid any attention to it. She wasn’t planning on starting, either. She was mistress of her home, and she would go where she wanted. Jon couldn’t stop her.

 

* * *

 

 

 **AN:** Considering the climate of this fandom right now, I was hesitant to post this story, until I decided I was going to dive headfirst anyway, boo at the consequences. I mean, this is what fanfiction’s about, I guess—exploring all those avenues, those nooks and crannies, even those dark places you know might be dangerous. This story deals with a lot of the dynamics in Season 7 and 8; this includes Jon and Dany’s relationship, especially. Even then, I want to make it _very_ clear that this story is about Jon and Sansa. Thanks for reading, guys. Any feedback is greatly appreciated! =D  


	2. Chapter 2

It was utterly foolish, she realized, having to go from one end of her home to another like a mouse evading the presence of a prowling cat. Still, it _was_ the lesser of two evils, when it came down to it—any scenario where Jon happened upon her while she skittered towards her destination would be even less ideal. True, the glass gardens were on the westernmost side of the castle while the armory was in the opposite direction; the chances of running into Jon were slim to none, but Sansa just couldn’t shake off the paranoia that clung to her. She might have come out of her fever slightly worse for wear, yes, but she came out alive, breathing. If only Jon would see it that way, too.

“You must understand that his lordship’s had a terrible fright, my lady,” Maester Payton explained to her when she complained about his obsessive behavior in confidence. It was a rare occasion, being alone with her advisor; Jon was always lingering about, never out of sight, an additional limb she really didn’t need. “He’s spent so much time suffering over the possibility of your death that he needs to be sure you’re not leaving him. No matter how many times one has been exposed to death, one never gets used to it—the gods didn’t fashion that way.”

 _Because the gods aren’t merciful enough to do that._ Maester Payton’s wisdom wasn’t easy to swallow, but she preferred it over her own beliefs, none of which held any ground, anyway. At the least, it gave her hope that things would return to normal soon; her life had been upended enough.

Sansa hurried through a narrow alleyway, Ghost following close behind. The western courtyard opened before her only a moment later, quiet and still as she remembered it, not so different from the godswood. None of Winterfell’s other courtyards were ever as deserted as this one; of course, none of them were purported to be haunted, either. It was nothing but the wild imaginings of children and superstitious Northerners, but the tales had been eerie enough to keep most away.

She looked up to stare at the face that had been rendered from iron and bronze, a fairly accurate depiction as far as she could tell. Daenerys’s statue rested in the center of the courtyard where she stood proud and erect, just as Sansa remembered her, frozen in time. Despite the upright, confident pose she held, there was something naked and vulnerable associated with the statue. The craftsmen she had commissioned had varying ideas about the placement of her dragons; in the end, they had been incorporated as a motif on the crown she wore.

As she studied the statue that loomed over her, Sansa realized how she never knew exactly what to make of Daenerys Targaryen—there simply hadn’t been enough time to reflect on any personal opinion she might have forged. In the eyes of most Northerners, the Mother of Dragons had been a paradox from the start, an ally and an enemy, until the Night King’s march towards them destroyed any such distinction. Now that Daenerys was but a memory, Sansa’s feelings towards her were just as convoluted as they had been when she had first step foot in the North. It was so easy to hate her, but there was another part of equal strength that admired her, too. Daenerys _must_ have been a force to be reckoned with—after all, Jon had fallen in love with her, had done it with all his heart and every fiber of his being. Sansa wondered, with displaced yearning, what it would have been like to be the recipient of such breathless, passionate fervor, whether she even knew how to respond to it. Probably not, but maybe that was for the best.

A high-pitched whine made her look away from Daenerys’s statue. Ghost pressed his nose against her thigh, urging her forward. Did the courtyard frighten him as well? “It’s only stories,” she protested, shaking her head. “She doesn’t come to life at night, you know. Or _do_ you?” Sansa winked at him.

Fed up, or just bored, Ghost loped past her and out of the courtyard. Sansa glanced at the statue one last time before she hurried after him. Maester Payton told her that the courtyard was where she had been found, lying unconscious at the foot of Daenerys’s iron form. No matter how hard she tried to wrack her mind, Sansa couldn’t remember why she’d been there in the first place. The events prior to her collapse were nothing but a burst of saturated images and misplaced sounds, the line between truth and fantasy a blur. A shame she still had her memories from earlier that day…   

Sansa had never walked into a raging fire before, but setting foot inside the glass gardens must have been a fairly close experience, she thought; heat drowned her as soon as she passed through the doorway, licking at her face and leaving a sheen of moisture that was beginning to gather while she hurriedly pulled off her gloves and cloak. The greenhouse contained a dense silence that was so unlike the world beyond it, but she found that it made her time inside so much more memorable. True, it would never be as aesthetically pleasing as the gardens she remembered while she had lived in the Red Keep, but it had its own charm to it—a simple, Northern kind of attraction that she’d learned quickly to appreciate. The glass gardens housed more plants and flowers than Sansa knew the names of, but her favorite would always be the winter roses of her home; row after row of their shrubs had been planted in the center of the greenhouse, making them an impossible sight to miss. Even better, many of the roses her eyes caught sight of were in their mature state, their colour a pale, frosty blue that was mesmerizing to look at. They would make a lovely addition to her bedchamber, she thought, retrieving a sheathed blade and a wicker basket from the supply shelf nearby. Half a dozen roses would be enough to brighten her room—Sansa could already picture herself as she sat up in her bed, pulling away the curtains and being greeted by the sight of those lovely flowers.

Another thought came to mind while she set to work; the more she entertained it, the harder it was to repress that childhood giddiness she thought had long been snuffed out. Sansa pictured her daughter, one not yet conceived, but there was no doubt that she would possess dark hair so characteristic of her Stark heritage. Her daughter’s voice would ring through the narrow halls of Winterfell, together with Bran’s, and top of her head would be a crown of blue roses that Sansa would make, lovingly woven together with the prettiest pick of the bunch. The image was farther out of her grasp, but not impossible.   

Her feelings were chased off by an eruption of noise somewhere behind her. Sansa jolted to her feet, eyes wide with alarm. Her heart nearly stopped when she turned around to find Jon standing beneath the lintel, breathing loudly through his nostrils. The dense silence of the greenhouse, once benevolent and comforting, now felt like it was trying to strangle the life out of her.  

“What in Seven Hells do you think you’re doing here?” he demanded, his voice like the snap of a whip.

Sansa stared at him. “Hello, Jon,” she greeted gently. All her plans were rushing back now, together with the acute knowledge that she’d failed to follow through with them. Wasn’t it only moments ago when she’d stepped out? It must have, she thought, rather stubbornly; she couldn’t have been away from the keep _that_ long. Could she?

What was it he’d asked her again? Oh, yes. “Many of the winter roses are in full bloom now,” she explained, bending down to retrieve her wicker basket. Sansa realized that there were more than the half dozen she had initially planned. So, she _had_ lost track of time after all. “I thought it would be nice to have a few of them in my rooms, you see. They’re quite lovely, aren’t they?”

She plucked a rose from her basket and held it out to him, a hopeful smile painted on her face. Sansa hoped her peace offering would suffice, but she knew better; it would take a lot more than a pretty flower to placate Jon.

He stared at the blue rose before fixing his gaze on her face again, his eyes stormy. “You said you would be busy with your letters,” he said, and there was no mistaking the accusation lining his tone. “You said you wouldn’t be far.”   

“I just wanted to clear my head a bit,” she reasoned, gripping the handle of her basket. Sansa wondered how long it had taken Jon until he’d been struck with the possibility that she might be here, until she remembered that she’d passed through the western courtyard earlier. “Do you really think my actions criminal, Jon?”

The look he gave her might have been enough to make any man crumble. “You should have sent for me if you wanted to step out,” he reprimanded. “You know you weren’t supposed to be wandering off by yourself like this, but you did it anyway. What if you collapsed again?”

A stab of frustration ran through her body; Sansa could feel the grip on her patience slipping. She knew where his concern stemmed from, but it didn’t make his obsession with her whereabouts any easier to swallow. 

Sansa lowered her arm, rose still in hand. “You and I both know the fever’s too well and gone for me to succumb to it again,” she said, her tone patronizing. “I won’t let you talk to me like I’m a child, Jon. If I want to spend time by myself outside the great keep, then I will.”

“Even at the expense of your concerned husband?” he fired back. Maybe it was the light that flooded the glass garden, or maybe it was just a change in scenery, but for the first time since she’d regained consciousness, Sansa was realizing Jon’s changed appearance; his beard was noticeably unkempt, wild and untamed, and the dark crescents under his eyes were more prominent than she had ever remembered them. Sleep was difficult to come by for many people these days, herself included; her mind was constantly abuzz with matters of state and the concerns of her subjects, but there was also the memories to deal with, those drenched in blood and sorrow, those ripe with that question that time had watered: _what if_? All those thoughts and speculations, like a set of blocks placed one on top of the other, until their weight became too much and they came toppling down—just like the bright comet that had once blazed across the skies, towards the far north, so bright and grand that when Sansa first saw it, she thought the sun had gained wings. Down they all went, those thoughts of hers, until finally she descended into a fitful sleep that left her groggy and drained beneath the morning light that sliced through the thin gap between the drawn bed curtains. Was it all the same for Jon? Or was there something else she wasn’t accounting?

Sansa frowned in response to his question. It just wasn’t like him to bring up their marriage in such a context; their union was an image drafted from the need to bolster the morale of not just their Northern subjects, but all the survivors of the Great War, those who were desperate for proof that some sort of normalcy was attainable. Her temper flared at the thought of Daenerys’s statue in the center of the western courtyard and the primary reason behind Jon’s self-imposed exile.

“Don’t twist it like that,” she admonished, shaking her head disapprovingly. “It’s not like you at all, you know, pretending we’re something we’ve never been.” Jon was threatening the success behind their partnership; Sansa didn’t like it one bit. She circled around him to leave, eager to extricate herself from this strange encounter before it worsened, but his hand on her arm stopped her from escaping.

“What do you mean by _that_?” he ordered. Sansa pursed her lips, glaring at him. “Tell me,” he pressed, tugging her closer.

She rolled her eyes. “You once told me you weren’t the husband I deserved, remember? _You_ set the rules, Jon. I’m just following them.” Sansa caught him trying not to wince. How could he ever forget that it was all she could do in order to bring him home?

It felt like such a long time ago when he had said that to her, so much so that she thought the pain had dulled, but the way her chest tightened told her otherwise; there were just some heartaches that could be temporarily displaced, but never forgotten. Sansa accepted that the romantic love she used to dream about was simply not in the cards she kept being dealt with, a gamble that always had disastrous results for her—it was safer to take refuge in the things she had, rather than those she wanted. Jon was never going to love her the way she used to imagine he could, but that wasn’t his fault.

Whatever was on his mind made him loosen his hold; Sansa tried slipping away, but her attempt was futile. Jon was like the first spark of a flame come to life, his fingers clamping down as he pulled her closer toward him, bodies pressed together in a way that was too intimate, too foreign.

“Maybe I don’t care for these rules anymore,” he said in a low voice, rough as bark. There was a wild, desperate look on his face that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand. If she was feeling hot before, now she felt like someone had just thrown ice water at her.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You think I’m play games with you?” There was a hard, determined light in his eyes. “I’m not, Sansa.”

She regarded him warily. It was clear he wasn’t going to back down, but it would take more than a few heated words to convince her that he was actually being serious. If Jon wanted something more out of their marriage, what was he looking for? Was she even willing to give it to him, after he’d broken her heart the way he had?

Sansa didn’t want to think about the possibilities. She didn’t want to deal with any of this at the moment, especially when Jon was standing so close to her. She was tired all of a sudden; the tension between them was wearing her down, and she very badly wanted to lay her head down on her pillow and rest. Maybe when she woke up, Maester Payton would deem her well enough that she could finally see Bran again, hold him tight against her chest like she always did, reminding her that the love she bore her son was a thousand times greater than any love she might have bore Jon, once. That ship had passed; the empty space Jon left inside her when he came back North with Daenerys Targaryen had been properly filled, and he only had himself to blame for that.

“Come back to the keep with me,” she offered, hoping this would soften him up a bit. Instead of escaping his hold, she placed a hand on top of his— a sisterly touch, one she knew he would recognize—before guiding him out of the glass gardens. _A lady’s armor is courtesy_. “I want to know what Elyot’s been up to. And I’ll tell you what Lady Brienne has written to me about, but you must keep it a secret. Can you do that?”

 

* * *

 

 **AN:** Hello, it’s me—and I’m not updating ten years after the last one! How’s _that_ for character development? =D


	3. Chapter 3

Sharp winds sliced across patches of exposed skin—for him, it was as welcoming as a friend’s embrace. There was a time when the cold offered a familiar kinship amongst life’s inconsistencies; somewhere along the way, that ceased being true. No matter how many furs Jon threw over himself, the chill seeped into his bones regardless, weighing him down until he fancied himself as stagnant as the mountains he was living amongst. Most of his life he thought he had the blood of wolves coursing through his veins, but that had only been partly true. Whatever the reason for his altered perceptions towards the cold, in the end it suited him just fine. Here, where the souls of those who had fallen were buried deep beneath the snow, he wasn’t looking for comfort and ease.

 

It was penance. Atonement, perhaps—for what, Jon wasn’t always sure. A prize had awaited him at the end of the Great War, or so he was made to believe. But a throne wrought with blood and the suffering of millions was no reward in his eyes, and he hadn’t been looking for any to begin with. If there was anything he ever wanted, it was finding somewhere to belong, but the world that rose with the New Dawn didn’t need a broken soul like him, weighed down my memories, stalked by phantoms he couldn’t escape from, despite how far he travelled. Jon was sure he once reached the end of the world, but it turned out _that_ hadn’t been far enough, either. He was trapped in a cycle, running from ghosts but still chasing down memories. Part of him was desperate to be free from it all; an even bigger part refused to let go.

 

“Strange that you believed in this world enough to give your life for its survival, yet now you choose not to live within it,” said Sansa, watching him with pair of stern eyes. Despite the disappointment her words conveyed, her voice carried with it echoes of melancholy and failed potential. Once or twice, Jon thought that he had even caught flashes of jealousy across her face, but he couldn’t be sure. Life behind the tall, granite walls of Winterfell was worlds away from the rough, bleak existence he chose to pursue in the lands he and his army had fought on, but freedom, he knew, came in various shades; everyone lived in their own prisons, lord and commoner alike. He remembered watching her closely during the only visit she made to him and wondered if she was happy. Jon had watched her, wondering how Sansa viewed the world that had taken so much from her.

 

He was watching her again now, a husband looking down at this sick wife while she gasped and coughed, her face shiny with sweat, eyes as wide as moons. Jon knew she saw nothing. She was drowning deeper and deeper into feverish hallucinations, muttering a trail of nonsense that segued into something tangible and real—things he had been kept in the dark about, secrets that Sansa would never confess had she possessed a clear head. Each word that slipped past her quivering lips was like the slash of whip against his back, drawing a curtain of blood for every one, and nothing Maester Payton said could lull the pain. “It’s only feverish talk, my lord, and nothing more,” he assured; Jon so desperately wanted to believe him, but a voice in his head, grave and accusing, warned him otherwise.

There was a time when Jon thought he knew what it meant to be cold, so cold that there was nothing to feel, but it turned out he had been wrong. Now he was colder than he could ever think to conceive, both body and mind numb from fear, from the possibility that the master had divulged, the longer Sansa remained in this state of illness. So long as she could make it through the night, she had every chance of surviving. Darkness stretched beyond him and everyone else who waited anxiously with him, but there was no telling if she would greet the morning with all of them.

 

He could lose her. For all that Jon had endured and for everything he had experienced, a possibility like that never crossed his mind until now, when the chances were at its highest. _Sansa could die._ His veins were choked with ice-cold terror, but there was nothing to relieve it, nothing at all. He’d spent so much time in his own head, holding onto things that were no longer real, failing to see the living as something worth his effort. For the first time since coming back to Winterfell Jon saw his reticence for what it really was, all while his wife lay dying, caught in the throws of a fever that he could have prevented, if only he hadn’t been so blind.

 

A coward, that’s what he was.

 

In the still air of the godswood Jon stood, praying. “Save her,” he whispered, despite being alone. “Just save her, and I’ll want for nothing more.” He couldn’t remember the last time he prayed; he didn’t know if it was to the old gods or to the one who had brought him back to life after his brothers had betrayed him. He no longer knew what it meant to believe in the divine, but in that moment, it was the only thing he could turn to.

 

* * *

 

“Alys Karstark and Gilbart Cerwyn?” Arya’s voice rang through the stone walls of her nephew’s nursery. “Seven hells, you can’t be serious.”

 

Sansa tried to keep the corners of her mouth from tilting up. “Why would you say that?”

 

“Have you _seen_ Gilbart Cerwyn? It’s like he never knows what to do with those long limbs of his. Besides, I would have thought Lady Alys would want more for herself than a second son. Does she not realize her children will be positively hideous?”

 

“Oh, hush.” Sansa twisted her neck to glance at the doorway, hoping that Bran’s nurse wasn’t hovering about in the adjacent room. When she turned back to face her sister, Arya shrugged.  

 

“Well, I’m happy for her. She’s found love after everything that’s happened, and I think that’s rather brave of her.” Sansa cast Arya a knowing look, her eyes bright with meaning.  “Anyway, I’m sure they’ll have beautiful children.”

 

Her younger sister snorted. “I’d bet my entire dowry they won’t.”

 

“Fortunately for them, you don’t have one.” Sansa’s face split into a wide grin when she could no longer help it. When Arya returned the grin with one of her own, there was no staunching the joy and wonder that filled her heart. Two sisters basking in each other’s company, carving out a moment during the day to spend time with one another—it was a shame that the family they’d lost couldn’t witness this in the flesh. It was amazing how time and circumstance had forged a kind of bond that both sisters would have thought impossible when they were children; Sansa knew they were a long way from being a perfect pair, but the possibility was there, nonetheless, like the promise of spring after the snows melted…

 

Nestled on his aunt’s lap, Bran was the image of blissful ignorance. His small hands were full of his favourite toy, a ball made from straw and wrapped in a bright orange cloth that was only a shade or two lighter than his own flaming hair. Sansa sighed gently before turning her attentions back to the doublet lying on the table. She had mended most of the tears during an earlier session with patches of fabric as similar in color as she could find, but a few of the seams had come undone as well. “You really should have had this looked after a long time ago,” she commented. “And don’t think for moment that I actually believe you when you said this was from days of hard riding, because I _know_ they weren’t.”

 

“How do you know that?”

 

Sansa turned the doublet inside out, her eyes marking out where the original stitching had been. “When you see enough of them, they start telling their own stories.”

 

She glanced up from her work. Arya had a look of scepticism on her face, but she didn’t ask her to elaborate.

 

“I’m sorry you had to leave Storm’s End so soon.”

 

Arya shrugged. “Gendry’s insecurities can wait. Suppose you could write to him with some lordly advice—he certainly wasn’t listening to anything I had to offer. Anyway, I’m glad you’re not dead,” she added quickly, looking away before she could see how Sansa beamed at her.

 

“I’m glad I’m not dead either. Was Storm’s End to your liking?”

 

Her son cooed in delight when Arya started bouncing him on her lap, the high-pitched sound tickling her ears.

 

“Once you’ve been in one castle you’ve been in them all.” She shrugged. “It’s a fine thing, I guess, but the stormlands could do much better without Dorne as their southern neighbour. Gendry receives letters all day long from one house after another,” she explained, shaking her head with an air of annoyance. “They’re reaching out to whoever they know isn’t battling a civil war on their own fronts, too. It won’t be long until you receive something as well.”

 

Sansa straightened herself, staring at nothing in particular. “It will be a waste of a raven, of course. We’ve just about enough for our own people—there’s little we can offer them.”

 

“I’d say that goes for everyone these days. Wasn’t winning the Great War supposed to solve everything wrong with humankind—greed and wrath and all that other horseshit I keep dragging my boots through?”

 

She smiled sadly. “If only that were true.” It was the mistake of a novice to deal in absolutes, and Sansa was beyond that. Survival or annihilation—weren’t those the only options left to them when the Wall had fallen? It was easy too, making a decision and following it through to the end. Fighting the Great War had been simple, the enemy clear as day; prospering in its aftermath was the hard part. An image of Jon, engulfed in his poorly-cut furs, swam behind her eyelids. _I can’t be the husband you deserve_.

 

“What are you thinking so hard about?”

 

Her gaze jerked towards Arya’s face. For a moment Sansa was without words, caught up in a bale of memories that slowly unfurled. “He’ll ask for you again,” she divulged, keeping her voice steady. “Whether your advice is sound or not, I’ve a feeling Lord Gendry knows the power of a familiar face in times of uncertainty.”

 

Even before she finished, Sansa was sorry for the things she’d voiced. She focused all her concentration on the stitches she was putting in, ensuring that they were perfect in length and evenly spaced, but the memories she had conjured through her words suddenly burst to life against her will, like something catching fire by accident; desperate, she tried burying them beneath images of a more recent time: Bran when he was newly born, staring up at her with such unconstrained wonder she thought she might split in two from the magic of it all—or the first time she drew an arrow that hit its mark after countless tries, her triumph upstaging the ache pulsing up and down her arm. Happiness, she remembered, was always harder to search for than its counterpart, but that didn’t stop her from trying. There were different kinds of happiness, Sansa had reasoned with herself, which meant that she could be happy in different ways. Her current beliefs might have ran counter to that of her childhood perceptions, but she’d grown adept at recalibrating her dreams in order to make sense of what was before her. The happiness she dreamed about might have been out of her reach, but she _could_ be happy, nonetheless. If there were any gaps in a presumption like that, they weren’t glaring enough for her to heed. Besides, what else was there to cling to?

 

“Will you journey south again if Lord Gendry writes to you? I’m sure the promise of a second visit will be a useful bargaining chip if you’re concerned with his taking your advice.”

 

Arya smirked at her. “I thought a dozen or so winter roses would do the trick, but I see you’ve gone and emptied out the glass gardens, haven’t you?”

 

Both of them turned their heads towards the window. Just beneath was a round table whose main attraction was the vase brimming with winter roses—the very ones she had picked. Many of the rooms she spent most of her time in were generously decorated with the same flowers now, their fragrant scent masking the more disdainful odours that loitered, unseen, in the corners. Sansa bit down gently on the inside of her lip.

 

“That was Jon’s doing, not mine.”

 

“What, did he empty out the gardens himself?” Arya quirked a dark eyebrow at her. “What a sight that must have been!”

 

She shook her head. “He merely set the order.”

 

“Well that’s very kind of Jon, isn’t it? A bit strange, coming from him, but still kind.”  

 

Bran was trying to dig the soles of his feet into his aunt’s knees in an effort to stand, his whines growing louder, desperate; it saved her from having to offer any explanation about Jon’s recent behaviour, of which she herself didn’t wholly want to believe. “I think he’s grown tired of me,” Arya lamented, after a shriek tore through Bran’s mouth.

 

“Here.” Sansa secured her work with an expert backstitch before returning her needle back to its slow in her sewing box. She fanned the doublet in the air and set it back down on the table. “There, that should do it.”

 

Arya stood and left her seat, setting Bran into the safety his mother’s arms before reaching for her doublet. Sansa stared into her son’s eyes, blue just like hers; he probably could have passed for Robb when he was just a babe, she thought, smiling proudly at him. Yes, she was proud he had inherited her looks over his father’s—a bit triumphant about it, even. She would never leave a legacy as celebrated as Jon’s, but at least her memory would live on through her son, a breathing commemoration, a testament to everything she’d learned from both her allies and her enemies.

 

“Has Jon said anything strange to you since you’ve been home?” she asked. The question had been bubbling inside her for a long while, but it was Arya who had made it possible for her to bring it up without drawing any suspicion on herself; Sansa was rather grateful for that.

 

Her sister pushed one arm through the sleeve, her face set in a pensive expression. “Not that I can think of. Sometimes he’s more thoughtful and quiet, but I figured he was in one of his moods again.”

 

“I see.”

 

“Why do you ask that? Has he said something to you?”

 

 _If only you knew,_ Sansa wanted to say. Could she really confide in Arya about the conversation she’d had with Jon in the glass gardens, or was that crossing a line? It was, wasn’t it? Her sister had voiced her opinions about their marriage prior to it taking place, but once the deed was done, she’d been fairly ambivalent about it. Some things had to be done out of necessity; Arya might not have agreed, but she understood that. What did it matter what Jon had said to her, anyway? Sansa had already decided that she was going to disregard it completely. She refused to let that encounter coat her perceptions with a grime of emotions that would only feed her sorrows, many of which she had already buried somewhere inside of her. “No, he hasn’t. I think he suffered greatly from both your absence and my falling ill, but it’s strange that death still affects him to that magnitude. If only the Great War had cured him of _that_.”

 

“But you’re his wife. Of course he’d be rattled by the thought of you dying.”

 

She huffed. “You know it’s not like between Jon and I.” _We’ll never be like that._ Sansa couldn’t believe she had to remind Arya, too; her sister was just as hurt when she realized that Jon had chosen to live in a desolate graveyard of thousands rather than come home. Arya knew the reasons behind his decision too, just like she did. What her sister probably didn’t remember was the husband she had carved out of girlhood fantasies and endless nights of loneliness, the one who had seen her for what she was but loved her fiercely regardless—the one she had superimposed on Jon even when he never asked her to, like fanning out a set of clothes on top of someone still lying in bed.

 

“Be it as it may, you’re a part of the only family he’s got left. That runs deeper than any vows you took beneath the heart tree.” Arya spoke with a confidence that was untempered by the confusion and doubt Sansa harboured. “Jon wouldn’t know what to do with Bran, either, if you died. A good thing you’ve been spared—your boy’s too precious to lose his mother.”

 

Sansa looked into her son’s face. _You must love your children,_ Cersei Lannister had advised, but she couldn’t imagine why that needed to be said out loud, because loving Brandon was the most natural thing in the world. Sansa didn’t think she could love anyone more than her son; it was like the ocean, so deep that it frightened her of its depths. Maybe that had been the extent of Jon’s love for Daenerys and their unborn children, she remembered thinking—maybe Jon had never loved someone as fervently as he did the Mother of Dragons, so that when she died all of his love was swept away with her. Wouldn’t it have been the same way, if Bran were been taken away from her? Fear scraped her stomach at such a possibility. Maybe Jon _did_ deserve a bit of sympathy on her part…or, maybe she’d finally grown used to the idea that he would never feel the same way towards his new family as he did for the one that was so cruelly snatched from him. No matter, though; Sansa could love their son enough for the both of them.

 

“Yes,” she murmured, pressing her lips against Bran’s temple, revelling in his soft skin. “Thank the gods I’ve been spared.”

 

 

 

 **AN:** Thank you to everyone reading this story! Your comments and feedback give me life. I started working the fuck out of this chapter after finishing the rough for _Thieves_ ; now that I’ve got this one out of the way, let’s hope I can force myself to buckle down and wade through the rest of my writing. Adios!


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